


honey, you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

by lesbianbeau (lauraelas)



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gender-Neutral Sidestep, Mutually Unrequited, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-08-23 08:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauraelas/pseuds/lesbianbeau
Summary: A collection of oneshots and drabbles for various characters and pairings from theFallen Heroseries. Requests taken onTumblr.Update -On screen, Daniel answers another one of Caesar’s inane questions, sparking laughter and delight from the enraptured audience. They’re loving him. Tomorrow, they will watch his blood spill on television from the safety of their homes.You take a long swallow of the amber liquid in your glass.





	1. your pain is mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by damiennazario!

“What happened?” you ask, your eyes locked on the inside of Ortega’s arm, where a cut extends from his wrist to his elbow. It looks to be days old, on its way to healing. You don’t think it will scar, having experienced your fair share of injuries in the past to know how deep a cut needs to be to become permanent. Marked on your skin forever.

Ortega blinks in surprise at the sudden question, then looks at the cut, as if he hadn’t noticed it until now. His mouth tightens, but when he speaks, his tone is almost lighthearted. “It’s nothing. I got it from the fight I was in two days ago.”

“Yeah, I saw it on TV,” you mumble, unable to look away from his injury. “You didn’t tell me you got hurt.”

“It barely even hurt. I’ve had worse before.” Ortega grins wryly, because you had been there for the worst of them, years ago.

Your lips thin. “Still. You should have said something.”

You’re not sure why you’re dragging this out. Why you’re acting concerned.

After all, you’re the one who gave him that cut.

It doesn’t get easier the more you do it, fighting Ortega. You can anticipate his blows, having fought beside him and sparred with him for years. He keeps you on your toes, though—he was Marshal for a reason. But that’s not what you mean.

Every time he gives you an opening, you hesitate. Every time you realize you can hurt him, take him out of the running, you can’t bring yourself to do it. Every time a punch or a kick connects with his body, you feel it as if you’d been on the receiving end. You aren’t sure if anyone has caught on to those moments. You don’t know when your identity will be revealed.

You used to think it didn’t matter. It was only a matter of time. But now, the more time you spend with Ortega as yourself, the more you reminisce about the past, when you were a hero, so eager to do  _good_ …

The more you hope Ortega never finds out the truth.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by Ortega throwing an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side. He smiles at you. “Yeah, well. I didn’t ask you out today to talk about boring stuff,” he says. “This is…” His cheeks darken with a pink hue. “You know. A  _date_.”

You feel your face heat up as well, even as the guilt eats at you. He shouldn’t be embracing you like this. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that. Like he  _cares_. Not when you’ve been lying to him, been hurting him in more ways than one.

You glance away. “Okay,” is all you say. “Where are we going, then?”

Ortega’s features brighten, and he chatters away. You try to listen, but his words quickly become incomprehensible. You can’t bring yourself to focus on them.

Because his touch is searing, as if the cut on his arm is bleeding through your clothes and carving itself into the line of your shoulders. Another scar for you to carry.


	2. words never said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by avadumortain!

“You don’t need to do this,” you say, frowning. “I can handle it myself.”

Ortega, head bowed over the first aid kit, sighs theatrically and rolls her eyes. “Yes, you’re big and strong and don’t need anyone. I  _know_.” You don’t bristle at the words, which is a testament to how long you’ve known each other. You know now that Ortega is joking around, which she does with everyone, and not mocking you.

“Still,” Ortega continues, “it’d be hard to clean these up yourself. Trust me, I know from experience.”

You don’t argue, because she’s right. The cuts are on your hands, gotten when the latest villain, Repulsor, had caught you off-guard and thrown you a couple yards back. You’d scraped them as you caught yourself against the concrete ground, but you lucked out. The other heroes had not been as fortunate, emerging from the fight with cracked ribs and broken bones.

Including Ortega, who winces every time she turns to grab something from the first aid kit. She has a cracked rib. You told her not to worry about it, that you could do it yourself, but she refused to listen to reason. Typical. 

You watch as she rubs ointment over the scraped palms, your jaw clenching at the pinpricks of pain. But your attention is caught by the feeling of Ortega’s calloused hands. Her skin isn’t soft, but it’s warm against your own. It’s…  _nice_. The realization throws you for a loop. When had you stopped flinching at her touch and started liking it? Welcoming it, even?

Seconds pass in silence, before Ortega looks up at you from under her lashes. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flinch or cry out when I patch you up,” she says. “Not even when I use the antiseptic. And that shit  _stings_.”

You raise a brow at her. You’re not sure why she’s bringing it up, or cares. “What, you want me to apologize?” you say dryly.

Ortega chuckles. “‘Course not. I was just… making an observation, I guess. Nevermind.” She lets go of your hands and turns to grab some gauze from the kit. You frown when her face scrunches up in pain, the movement aggravating her injury, but don’t try to dissuade her from helping you again. It won’t make a difference. Ortega’s the most stubborn person you’ve met.

She wraps the gauze around your hands, tight but not enough to cut off circulation, her fingers firm yet gentle. Mere hours ago, you’d seen her throw punches with full-force, a hint of a smirk tugging the corners of her mouth. Watching how carefully she’s patching you up right now, you never would have imagined she had the capacity for such softness.

Privarely, you can’t help wonder. Would she still be this gentle if she knew…?

“There we go.” Ortega ties off the gauze and looks up at you, grinning. “All done. Happy now?” You twitch involuntarily when her hands leave yours, as if in protest at the loss.

You clear your throat. “Very,” you mumble. “Thanks.” You make a show of examining the gauze so you don’t have to meet her gaze.

“What, is it too tight? Too loose?” Ortega asks, concerned. She leans forward in her chair to look. You almost forgot you were at the Rangers headquarters, where anyone could walk in to see the two of you sitting so close together, your knees nearly touching. You know no one would think anything of it—the first aid kit is on the table nearby, your hands wrapped in gauze; it’s obvious what you were doing—but your stomach twists all the same.

You lean away, hoping you’re not being too obvious. “No, it’s good.”

Ortega’s pinched face smooths. Then she raises a brow, a familiar glint in her eyes. “You sure? Want me to kiss it better, just in case?”

You’re used to this now. The teasing. The flirting. Hell, you’ve even flirted  _back_  on occasion. Yet a lump forms in your throat anyway. A tiny, reckless part of you wants to lock eyes with her and say,  _Yeah, okay_. Just to see what would happen. If she’d actually do it. If she’d cradle your hand in both of hers, and raise them up to her lips, and…

You roll your eyes instead. “No thanks,” you manage to say. You’re surprised your voice doesn’t crack. Then, you allow yourself to smirk, just a little. “Who  _knows_  where your lips have been.”

Ortega actually gasps at that, her brows climbing her forehead; higher than you’ve ever seen them, you think. You stifle a snort at her affronted response, settling in for the banter you’ve sparked.

Just like that, another dangerous situation is diffused, Ortega none the wiser. Which is good. As amusing as the flirting is, there’s a boundary you can’t cross. Not ever.

You’re relieved. You  _are_.

(One day, maybe you’ll believe that.)


	3. caught singing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by anon!

You hadn’t even realized you were doing it, at first. You’re at Ortega’s mother’s house, and she insisted you stay over for dinner, not taking no for an answer. You managed to convince her to wash the dishes, at least, so you’re elbow deep in soap suds. Ortega is cleaning up the dining table, and his mother is in the living room, her thoughts a low murmur in the back of your mind.

You’re the most relaxed you’ve ever been, you think. Maybe that’s why you start singing to yourself, low under your breath. It’s a song you have heard Ortega hum often, and it’s since then been stuck in your head.

“Huh,” comments a voice from behind you. “I didn’t know you  _sang_.”

You flinch, caught off-guard. You hadn’t been paying attention to where Ortega was. You snap your head around to see your partner, who looks as surprised as you must appear. He raises his hands, as if in surrender. “Uh. Sorry?”

A flush spreads across your cheekbones. You turn away, hoping Ortega hadn’t noticed, and resume scrubbing. “I… thought you were cleaning the table,” you say, changing the subject.

“I’m done. It didn’t take that long,” Ortega says, leaning his hip on the counter beside you. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You said you  _didn’t like_  that song.” His tone is more amused than accusatory.

You don’t look at him, feeling flustered. You focus on washing. Unfortunately, there aren’t that many dirty dishes left. Hell. “I never said that. I only said I didn’t like you singing it all the time.”

Ortega crosses his arms over his chest, scoffing. “I’ll have you know that lots of people have  _complimented_  me on my voice.”

“To make you feel better, probably,” you toss back. A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. This back-and-forth, you are much more accustomed to.

Just as Ortega opens his mouth to respond, eyes twinkling with mirth, he’s interrupted. “If you two are done flirting,” Ortega’s mother calls from the next room, “will you join me in the living room? I haven’t seen either of you in  _weeks_!”

You and Ortega glance at each other at that. The tips of Ortega’s ears redden. He clears his throat, before shouting over his shoulder, “Coming, Mamá!” As he moves to leave, your shoulders slowly relax.  _Thank god for Ortega’s mother…_

Almost as if  _he_  were the telepath, Ortega looks back at you. “By the way,” he says, “you have a lovely singing voice.” There is no trace of mockery in his tone, his expression. He’s being completely genuine. You blink as he leaves the kitchen, smiling to himself.

It takes a minute for you to realize you’ve finished washing the dishes, the sink faucet still open and spraying water everywhere.


	4. tangled in bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by anon!

You watch from the bedroom, chin resting on your palm, as Ortega examines herself in the bathroom mirror. “Are you done preening?” you ask dryly, though privately, you’re concerned about how silent she’s been for the past few minutes.

“Hmm?” Ortega turns to you, as if noticing you for the first time. “Oh, sorry. I… Yeah.” She pointedly doesn’t look into the mirror as she leaves the bathroom, closing the lights and shutting the door behind her.

Your brows furrow. “Alright, something’s wrong,” you say, shifting over when she joins you on the bed, settling into the pillows.

Ortega shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I’m just being stupid.”

“You’re always being stupid,” you blurt, before you can think better of it. You wince.

It’s not your strong suit, providing reassurance. Whenever you’ve had to rescue civilians, Ortega would be the one to calm them, to comfort them. You are more than happy to stand in the background, unnoticed, nudging their mind when necessary. Now, though, Ortega needs you, and you’re already messing it up.

Instead of being upset, however, Ortega cracks a smile. “Touché,” she says. “So don’t worry about it. Really.”

You frown. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push. But I know something is troubling you, Julia.”

“Name drop. You mean business,” Ortega says softly. For a moment, you think she won’t say anything more. Then she sighs, glancing away, and begins to pick at the bedspread. “I just… noticed I have a grey hair.”

You blink. You hadn’t considered  _that’s_  what was troubling her. Ortega picks up on your reaction immediately. She practically melts into the headboard. “See? I told you it’s stupid!” she groans, covering her eyes with her hands. “I don’t know why it even matters. I’m in my thirties; it’s not my first grey hair. And some stylist is going to get rid of it the moment they notice it’s there. But I can’t stop looking at it.”

“It’s  _not_  stupid,” you say firmly. “If it matters to you, it’s important.” You bite your lip, wondering how to help. If you can, at all. “And I was surprised because, well. I like it.”

Ortega spreads her fingers to peer at you between them. “You… like my grey hair?” she asks in disbelief.

You shrug. “It looks good.” You’ve noticed it before, the streaks of grey that would peek through the black hair she regularly tied into a braid. Before a stylist would get rid of them, of course. You always thought it was a shame.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Do I  _ever_  say something I don’t mean to make you feel better?”

“…No,” Ortega admits. “If anything, you do the opposite.” She drops her hands in her lap, a small grin beginning to spread across her mouth. “So, wait. You actually like my grey hair?”

“Don’t get a big head over it,” you warn, pointing at her, “but yeah. It makes you look more mature. Which is something you sorely need, since you don’t act like it.”

Ortega ignores your addition. She’s grinning widely now, and… did she just waggle her eyebrows? “Oh, so I’m like a sexy older woman who seduced you with her womanly wiles.”

You scoff at that, shaking your head as she crawls to your side of the bed. “That is  _not_  what I said,” you tell her, trying to sound firm; the effect is ruined by your smile, however. Ortega’s hovering over you now, one hand braced on the headboard beside you.

“But you  _do_  think I’m attractive, grey hair and all?” she asks. The question comes out teasing, but you can tell she’s serious.

Which may be why you reach out first, your palms cradling her face. “It doesn’t matter what changes about you, Julia,” you say softly. “You’re my partner.” You realize the double meaning only after you’ve said it. Thankfully, Ortega doesn’t ask you to clarify. She doesn’t say anything, in fact. Her eyes soften, and her free hand comes up to clasp one of your wrists loosely.

When Ortega leans down to kiss you, you meet her halfway. Eventually, you twine a hand in her hair, the tresses gliding through your fingers like silk; you keep it there, where it rests for some time. Anchoring you, and maybe her too.


	5. hurts to be close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by line-artsy!
> 
> it's an au, this time around! basically, ortega and sidestep are fake dating for the cameras, a la herald and argent. of course, there’s pesky feelings involved...

Ortega’s hand is warm against your spine, the touch searing into the very marrow of your bones. Or so it feels. You want to both shy away and lean into it, despite knowing neither option is ideal. You force yourself to remain completely still.

“Is this really necessary?” you ask, keeping your voice low.

After all, currently, the two of you are surrounded by cameras and microphones. Reporters are keeping a respectful distance, but they are picking up every moment of this hungrily. Eager for whatever may unfold. You can even hear the propellers of a helicopter, soaring above your heads. It’s dark shape blotting out the sweltering sun is eerily reminiscent of a vulture, waiting as its prey slowly dies so it can swoop down and pick its bones clean.

Ortega dips her chin in a subtle nod. “Gotta play it up for the cameras,” she murmurs, a grin tugging at her mouth. She’s more amused by this situation than she ought to be. “I’m a concerned girlfriend making sure her partner is okay.” The words make your spine stiffen further.

You think back to the countless talks you’ve had with the Rangers’ PR department. For some strange reason, the public is speculating like crazy over your relationship with Ortega, and whether it was platonic or something more. Which gave them the inane idea for  _this_.

It was a way to humanize the heroes who protect Los Diablos, you were told. Especially you, since no one had seen you sans mask. Despite the few interviews you have done, and your friendship with Ortega, it’s apparently not enough for the public to trust you wholeheartedly. It was PR’s hope that if you and Ortega feigned being lovers, the public would warm up to you.

You’re uneasy with this development, for a whole host of reasons. Too much scrutiny and publicity makes your stomach churn at the possible repercussions. Not to mention your feelings towards Ortega, whatever they are.

But you want this, don’t you? A chance to do good. To be normal, if only somewhat. So you went along with it, despite your many reservations.

Thankfully, Ortega makes it easy. She’s the only unmasked one from the two of you, so she’s the one who has to display the most emotion. A loving smile here, a concerned frown there, an intimate, yet brief touch now and then… she’s a natural at this. Pretending, you mean.

Now if only you could stop your heart from fluttering every time she does.

“You ready to get up?” Ortega’s voice brings you back to the situation at hand. Right. You were just fighting a supervillain. You won. Now, the cameras are watching your every move.

You meet your partner’s concerned gaze. This, you believe, isn’t feigned. You  _did_  get hurt, after all. “Uh, yeah,” you manage to say. Sitting on the dusty, debris-strewn ground, you stir and attempt to stand.

Ortega’s hands, under your arm and on the small of your back, help you up. You stumble, your injured knee twinging, and nearly collapse into her chest. She’s there to keep you standing; a solid anchor. The low murmur of the minds surrounding you grows louder in interest.

“Easy there,” Ortega says, tone light and amused. “You don’t have to  _literally_  fall for me, Sidestep.”

If only you could tell your heart that.

“Shut up,” you snap, but you don’t move out of her makeshift embrace. She stays by your side, the warmth of her body seeping into your own, the entire time, while the cameras roll and catch every moment.

 _Only for the publicity_ , you remind yourself.  _That’s all this is._ The thought should ground you, comfort you.

You only feel the burn of disappointment instead.


	6. too blind to see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by anon!
> 
> as usual, this is set pre-canon. when will i write canon again? whomst knows

“ _Ow_. Be a little more gentle with me, will you?” Ortega complains as you readjust the arm slung across your shoulders, in an attempt to help him over the threshold of his apartment.

You roll your eyes. As concerned as you had been earlier, you know Ortega is not at any risk now. All he needs to do is rest up and recover—which you  _will_  ensure happens—and he’ll be back on his feet in no time. A little rough handling won’t kill him. (But you make a conscious effort not to move in a way that’ll jostle his healing ribs again.)

“Getting frail in your old age?” you taunt, shutting the door behind you with the heel of your foot. You’ll be sure to lock it later.

Ortega huffs. “I nearly died and you’re still acting like a little shit. I shouldn’t be surprised by now.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so dramatic,  _old man_ , I wouldn’t be such a little shit,” you say. As if you hadn’t immediately run to his side when the villain of the week was successfully incapacitated, just days ago.

Thankfully, Ortega had been swimming in and out of consciousness, so he has no idea how panicked you’d been. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to live it down for the rest of your life. (Or however long you have until the Farm hunts you down. You push the thought away. Now isn’t the time to obsess over that; let that worry simmer until you’re alone.)

You don’t need to ask where his bedroom is. You’ve done this song and dance before. Really, it’s troubling how often Ortega emerges from fights with broken bones and bruises. Makes you wish you had warned him faster, or gotten him out of the way in time. But even if Ortega no doubt knows your true ability by now, the rest of the Rangers don’t. Neither does the media. You have to keep it that way.

You push the bedroom door open with your foot. You manage to flick the lights on using your elbow. Approaching the immaculately made bed, you ease Ortega down on it.

He hisses through clenched teeth as he settles on the edge of the mattress. “Mind getting the blinds? I can’t sleep without them closed.”

You nod. Walk over to the windows. The sun is setting on Los Diablos, but rays of sunlight still peek through from between the tall buildings. You squint as you pull down the blinds, then draw the curtains shut. The room is darker now, though only marginally.

You turn around, words on the tip of your tongue, only to choke. You quickly forget what you were going to say.

Ortega’s in the middle of slipping his shirt over his head, his back to you. He’s cursing, in Spanish you think, but you can’t be sure. You’re too busy watching the muscles in his back ripple with every movement. He’s badly bruised, and bandaged. And you’ve never seen a more riveting sight.

He sighs as the shirt comes off, then fixes his mussed curls with a tanned arm. Even that casual motion is worthy of being on the cover of a magazine. It’s usually frustrating, how Ortega always looks camera-ready. Right now, however, you’re enraptured.

You can’t help but imagine approaching the bed. Sinking your knees into the mattress, finally find out if it’s as comfortable as it looks. Reaching out and settling your palms along the planes of his back. Ortega would flinch at the touch. Surprised by your action, no doubt. But maybe he’d shiver, too. Maybe he’d turn around, his eyes dark and glittering, and he’d...

He’d what, exactly? Reach out for you?  _Kiss_  you?

Your fanciful thoughts come to an abrupt end. You can’t imagine Ricardo Ortega actually reciprocating the feelings you have for him, whatever they even are. He might know you in a way no one else does, but there are still too many walls between you. Walls you can’t get rid of. Not ever.

Your fantasy of having any form of intimacy with Ortega is just that: a fantasy. The butterflies fluttering in your stomach die, one by one.

You struggle to compose yourself when Ortega turns to you. To hide any trace of longing from your features. He can never find out how you feel. (If he did... Would he laugh? Would he pity you? It’s another variable you have no idea of.) So you grit your teeth and avert your gaze.

“Well?” Ortega says. His brow is raised.

Shit. He must’ve said something directed at you. “Well  _what_?” It comes out more defensive than you meant it to.

“Are you gonna slip outside for a bit? Unless you want to stick around and see these pants come off.” He smirks, and it’s not much different from his smiles on TV. Charming, almost seductive.

You scoff loudly. “I’ll get you some water. And lock the front door.” You hope your voice isn’t as shaky as it sounds to your ears.

You head to the door, lips thinning when Ortega chuckles.  _Asshole_. You shut the door firmly behind you. Only then do you let loose a deep sigh. When you close your eyes, all you see is Ortega, his back to you, shirt bunched up around his chest. This time, you’re able to keep the longing at bay.

You need to get this silly crush under control, and soon.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the door, Ortega runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “What are you  _doing_ , Ortega...” No answer comes to him.


	7. comforting touches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by andromedeas on tumblr!
> 
> so i randomly decided to come up with a hunger games au for fallen hero, and it spiraled into this. there’s no real plot, but i hope it’s interesting to read regardless!
> 
>  **warning**  for brief mentions of alcohol and drug abuse.

“So, he has the  _biggest_  crush on you.” The words, said with too much glee, cause your fingers to tighten around your glass. You stifle a sigh as you turn your head, meeting Ortega’s amused gaze.

“He does  _not_ ,” you say uncomfortably, waving the words off. “I’m his mentor. That’s all.”

“Hadn’t seemed that way to me,” she says. “I saw you with your tributes, just before the opening ceremonies. He looked at you like you hung the moon.”

You purse your lips at the description. Daniel had been shy when you first met him on the train to the Capitol, but he’s stuck like glue to your side ever since. You’ve been mentoring the tributes from your district for the past few years now, but none of them had ever reacted this way to you.

You thought it was hero worship. Looks like you were  _horribly_  wrong.

You take a sip of of your drink—you aren’t sure what it is, just that it’s alcoholic, which is all that matters—almost sighing as it travels down your throat, burning like fire. It nearly makes you feel better about the situation.

Laughter brings you back to reality. You refocus on the large television screen situated nearby, where the sound originated from. The mentors are afforded a private viewing room, which you’re using right now. You’re all clustered around the screen, watching the kids you’ve been mentoring be formally introduced to Panem.

Daniel is sitting with Caesar Flickerman. He’s dressed in a navy suit with his blonde hair slicked back. He looks sharp, but still has a boyish quality to him. His smile is wide and earnest, his eyes sparkling—though that’s just because of the studio lights.

Still, he’s a natural. Daniel’s just walked on stage, and the crowd—and Caesar—is already eating him up. You had discussed this; his strategy was to be charming, endear himself to the audience that way. And it was working without a hitch.

Much different from the first time you were sitting in that chair, years ago. You’d been forced into tight, ill-fitting clothes, awkward and bumbling. Caesar had a field day trying to endear you to  _anyone_.

Yet here you are, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games. A trail of dead children lying in your wake.

“Think he has a chance?” Ortega asks, capturing your attention again.

You turn to her. She’s staring, like she has an idea what you’re thinking about. And she might; she has the uncanny ability to see past your caustic facade. Only one other person could do that, you can't help think. And they’re  _gone_.

You finally break eye contact, feeling oddly exposed. “Too soon to say,” you answer. “He’s shown some promise, though.”

You’re not lying. After years of mentoring, you’ve acquired an eye for it. For telling which kid has what it takes to make it to the end, and who will end up dead when the bloodbath begins. Not that it changes anything. Since you, your district hasn’t produced any more victors.

Daniel could change that. But you aren’t pinning your hopes on him, because you don’t have any. You never did.

The Hunger Games are simply a way to keep Panem’s citizens in line. What was the point of pouring your heart and soul into these tributes? They’re pawns, that’s all. Cogs in an uncaring, blood-thirsty machine.

Just like you and the rest of the mentors.

On screen, Daniel answers another one of Caesar’s inane questions, sparking laughter and delight from the enraptured audience. They’re loving him. Tomorrow, they will watch his blood spill on television from the safety of their homes.

You take a long swallow of the amber liquid in your glass.

Ortega huffs a laugh. “Pace yourself, tiger,” she jokes. “Or you’ll be nursing a hangover tomorrow.” She moves closer to jab you playfully with her elbow, but she lingers against your side. Hiding her concern behind jests, that’s what Ortega does best.

“Jealous because your liver can’t handle as much anymore, old woman?” you counter. Her lips pinch, threatening to form a frown; you know how self-conscious she is about her age.

Yet you targeted it anyway. All because you’re bitter about something out of her control.

You don’t know why Ortega even bothers with you. You’re a victor from another district, one of many mentors who drown their sorrows in drugs and alcohol. No different from the rest. (Or so they think. You move on from  _that_  line of thought quickly.) Yet she seeks you out, drawing you out of your self-imposed solitude. You aren't thankful for it. You _aren't_.

Daniel’s time with Caesar is up. The audience claps and cheers as he leaves the stage, waving, and Caesar introduces the next tribute. He's done well, everything you asked for and then some. The perfect student.

But that won't save for him from the Games. Will you have to watch him die on your screen? Or will he die on the inside, filling the void within him however he can, when he's back from the arena?

You take another sip of your drink, tasting nothing but water. There’s only ice cubes left in your glass. You look at it as if it’s offended you.

Ortega laughs. Her arm settles across your shoulders. She’s too familiar with you for your liking, but you don’t shrug her off. “Have some water, then you can get another drink,” she says, steering you towards the food table. You let her, leaning into her side when your legs stumble. You’re more drunk than you thought.

“It’ll be your last one,” Ortega adds. “I won’t take any bitching over that. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. We all do.”

Because tomorrow is the start of the 75th Hunger Games. The tenth since the one you won. And this year, you won’t have Anathema by your side.  _Fuck_.

A lump forms in your throat.

When Ortega runs the palm of her hand along your arm, you realize she knows exactly what you’re thinking. How you’re feeling. It makes you hate her a little, because you don’t hate her at all.

And feeling anything for  _anyone_ , in this world, only gets you hurt.


End file.
